Everyone Wants to go Crazy Once in Their Life

I think the only way you truly know yourself is through other people.

I’m quite shy and I wish I was someone else at times.

Someone more expressive.

Someone more exciting.

Someone loud, charismatic, and doesn’t care what people think.

Maybe the most I could hope for is to be crazy and loud. Not the good or the bad crazy. But just unapologetic crazy.

Everyone wants to be special.

Everyone wants to be different.

It takes real courage to show your true self.

And even though you might feel alone and misunderstood maybe it’d be worth it. Right?

I don’t know…

Sometimes I think the only way you get to live this life is through compromise.

Compromise your health and do those drugs.

Sure it’s not the right or the wise thing to do but maybe it’s what will make your life interesting.

And we’re always told we’re only here a short time.

You won’t end up stuck in the loop of every day trivialities of your 9-5 job and that incessant voice in your head.

I just don’t want to care so much. I want to hold on to that person I wanted to be or aspired to be when I was a kid.

Soon I’ll forget, as everyone does when they get older. Get distracted from the things they actually want to do or achieve.

At some point you get so consumed by your worries you never get to do those things you wanted to do.

I see it all the time. The dead eyed husks of human beings.

Such a sad world. Such a drag… really.

You can’t win either way can you?

Logging off,

Co

It’s okay

don’t wanna see the light when it’s dyin

the trees skin torn from it’s limbs

raw and bare intestines

darkened by the light

once given it’s life

it’s remedy

now took

and continued taking

now a dwindled

thin and sorry body

laid down echoing it’s last breath

‘okay’

Drown

drowning

sufficating

the hand with the cloth pressing against my mouth

I seal my lips

struggling

he pulls me to the ground

pavement feels so cold, so comforting

I take my last gulp of air

giving in

I feel my spirit

lift and fall

he’s won

me..

I’m drifting out towards sea

sinking

I let the water rush in

it pools in my mouth, my eyes, my ears

in this moment

he

he has won

at last

To my sister

In labor with the second

Breaking my heart

Even deeper than she was

How does it feel?

To believe your own lies

So disconnected, so detached

Hope you get what you’re looking

You think.. maybe this will fix everything

It won’t but you hold so tightly

thinking.. why is this so difficult

why do I feel the tides pull away

I gave my everything

still leeching

he so proud and pompous

somethings off

but you say

nothing

and sit quietly like the housewife

you’ve chosen to be

idle

I’m tired

I’m tired of this numb

deafening feeling I carry

like a ball n chain, a old hag, a nagging wife

no release no escape of this awful vacant feeling

its so loud yet so quiet

I just want to scream, cry, hurt…. anything

It’s like a hot burning coal

cooking my insides

unable to throw it up

so it just sits there..

comfort in desolation

Written millions of times over “All the suffering in the world..” blah blah blah.

So many people feeling the same feelings..

Everyone expressing their hurt in different ways..

Just something to feel that release..

A oneness in the suffering and loneliness..

They cuddle up to the comforting feeling..

And rationalize their evening habits..

I don’t know anymore.

I convince myself that writing about my problems is causing more harm than good. But, I can’t tell anymore.

I think I’m more afraid to face my issues. Anything I type is bringing gravity and truth to my words with every click of a button. It’s why I’ve avoided going to therapy as well.

I feel the more I avoid these issues, the less existentialism I have to deal with and the less anxiety I’ll have about simply existing.

I’ve become detached from my virtuish self. My righteous perfectionist “I need to fix everything” self. And it feels great! Why do I have to constantly be doing the right thing. I’m over that.

I just want to live the way I choose and not psychoanalyze every thought that comes into my head.

See just writing this, is giving me grief.

Perhaps it’d be better if I write boring shit.

I don’t know anymore.

This no longer feels freeing. It feels more like an intervention to write. Fuck it.